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The 

Story of a Passion 

By 

IRVING BACHELLER ' 

U 



Printed by 

The Roycrofters, At Their Shops 
Which Are In East Aurora 
New York State 


Copyright 1917 
By The Roycrofters 


J 


JAN -2 1918 

©CI.A4797? 1 V 


The Story of a Passion 
















IBBS’S was a gloomy little 
heaven up one flight and 
Bibbs, a bald and cranky 
little god of fiddles, with 
whiskers half as long as himself and 
white as snow. His windows over- 
looked the Bowery, and their dusty 
panes hastened the twilight and 
delayed the dawn, robbing the day 
of an hour at each end. The elevated 
trains went rushing by, but some- 
how there was silence in this little 

3 



shop; or was it but the sign of silence 
that one saw on every side? — the 
hushed string, the whisper-haunted 
galleries of pine and maple, the un- 
communicative Bibbs. Once it had 
been a busy place, but the center of 
wealth and fashion had retreated 
from it year by year and now it was 
a mere nursery of fiddles. And some 
that lay upon the counter forty years 
ago were there today, and time had 
poured its floods of light upon them 
and dipped them in the silence and 
the gloom of night, and filtered 
through their fibers strains of song 
and sound until they came to years 
of understanding like to those of 
men, and had a voice for human 

4 


thought. Men came to buy them 
sometimes, but late years they had 
found it hard to deal with Bibbs. 
Raw-toned, young violins he some- 
times sold, and cheaply, but not the 
old ones that had been his hope and 
company for years — not for all the 
wealth in Gotham. His love of them 
was constant, and his price beyond 
all reach or reason. The sale of the 
Maggini had been a sorry bargain, 
though it brought him twice its 
value. He had not expected that the 
man would buy it at so high a price. 
The money was paid and the Mag- 
gini became the darling of another 
owner, who made off with it, while 
Bibbs stood speechless and confused, 

s 


and then, as the good wife was fond 
of telling, “ he went a lead color.” 
<1 But now buyers came more rarely, 
and his wife was dead and Bibbs 
lived quite alone. 


6 




T was early twilight in the 
little shop. Bibbs lit a 
candle, set aside his pots 
of glue and varnish, and 
stood thrumming the solemn old 
Amati he had just mended, and then 
he played a strain of music on its 
silver string. It was “ The Song of 
Faith ”from“ Elijah.” A deep amen 
went booming under the red dome of 
the bass viol that lay in a corner, and 
a low wail of sympathy swept through 


the cases on the counter and along 
the walls — the voice of those con- 
demned to silence in this little shop. 
<1 “ Yes, yes,” said Bibbs tenderly, 
“ 0 rest in Time, for Time is the 
Lord, and there is time enough to 
make all things perfect, even men. 
You are like a soul. When you were 
only seventy years old, I suppose the 
devil had his home in you as he has 
in me. Goodness is but harmony, 
and you might be better, you red- 
bellied son of a whittler.” 

As had been his custom by day for 
years, Bibbs carefully inspected the 
joinings of the Stradivarius. Then 
again he held his ear against it, and 

the strings broke into song at the 
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touch of his beard. “ That voice of 
yours! I wonder what it will be a 
thousand years from now. 

‘ ‘ Your old body will turn to splinters 
and to dust some time. Wood can’t 
last forever any more than flesh and 
blood. When your voice is near per- 
fection you will not be strong enough 
to stand the strain of the strings, 
and then — well, you ’re a good deal 
like a man anyhow.” To Bibbs, 
heaven was the destination of all 
good violins. “ To hell with harps! ” 
said he; “ They have no soul in them 
like this. ’’And hell was, in his opinion 
the resort of bad fiddlers, and their 
playing was the doom of the damned. 
Bibbs put the Stradivarius in its 

9 


case and turned the key. He stood 
moment silently filling his pipe, 
melancholy ’cello lying on the floor 
near by let go a string, humming 
disconsolately like a lovesick maiden. 


IO 


> p 




IBBS was about to make 
all fast and retire to his 
little room behind the 
shop, when suddenly the 
door opened, clanging the bell that 
hung above it. An old man, with a 
shaven, wrinkled face and long white 
hair, stood before him. 

“Any old violins? ” said he, advanc- 
ing into the shop. 

“ None to sell,” said Bibbs curtly. 
“ I do not wish to buy,” said the 


old man, “ but I ’m a connoisseur, 
and I would so like to see them.” 53 
Now there were men to whom Bibbs 
gave some toleration and even a 
degree of confidence — men who had 
grown old with fiddles and loved 
them as he did. “ Sit down,” said 
he, pointing to a chair; “ I ’ve an 
Amati, a Guarnerius and a real 
Stradivarius here. They ’re not 
mine ; I only take care of them. Play?” 

“ Once; but you see my fingers 
have grown stiff — these wrinkles are 
like strings that bind them.” 

Bibbs took the Stradivarius from 
its case and thrummed it, and as he 
did so the stranger rose and stag- 
gered toward him. “ Let me take it,’ ’ 


said he, and his lips quivered as he 
spoke 53 53 

“ Stand back, you fool,” said Bibbs; 
“ you can not buy this instrument. 
It is not for sale, I tell you.” 

“ I shall not try to buy it,” said the 
stranger. “You can trust it in my 
hands a moment. Brain me if I try 
to do it any harm. Let me see it; I 
think I know the tone.” 

Bibbs hesitated, surveying his caller 
with suspicious eyes. Then he closed 
the door and bolted it. 

“ Be careful,” he said; “ don’t drop 
it.” And with anxious looks he put 
it in the stranger’s hands. 

As the old man took the instrument 
he uttered but a single word, and 

13 


that was, “ Sweetheart! ” then he 
kissed its back and sank upon his 
chair, sobbing softly. 

He held the Stradivarius across his 
knee, and every tear that fell upon 
its slender roof sounded like a drum- 
beat; and when his sobbing ceased 
there came from it a cry as of a man 
weeping; and the great bass viol and 
all the daughters of music lying low 
in the little shop moaned in sym- 
pathy as if they knew and felt and 
understood. 

“ Pardon me,” said he presently, “ I 
seem to hear the voice of one long 
dead and dear to me. Thirty years 
ago it was mine; I fell ill and pledged 
it for a loan. That was in London. 

14 


I was a long time between life and 
death, and when I came to get the 
Stradivarius they had sold it for the 
debt. Listen! I will show you what a 
voice it has.” 

He tuned the strings and played, 
and as he played his fettered fingers 
were made free. His bow was like a 
trident quaking the sea of silence, 
and a dome of music like a mighty 
bubble rose to heaven, and the light 
and glory of the morning shone upon 
it. Far into the night these old men 
sat together, and the player never 
rested 53 53 

Now it so befell that there was a 
tenant in the Stradivarius who had 
never heard its thunders. Suddenly a 

is 


great black spider rushed out of the 
dark cavern of the violin, and scurry- 
ing down the finger-board, was 
crushed beneath the strings. The 
player stopped. 

“ It ’s a bad sign,” said Bibbs. 

“ Sorry you came here. You can not 
buy the Stradivarius, and there ’s 
no peace for you.” 

“ Unless you let me live here and 
help you tend the shop, ’ ’ the stranger 
said; “ I have money and we both 
love music, and you are alone.”,/ 53 
“ Yes,” said Bibbs, “ but if hecomes 
— the owner — and takes it from us?’ ’ 
“ But he may not come for years,” 
the stranger said; “ and let’s not 
borrow trouble.” 

16 


And so Bibbs made him welcome, 
and the old men lived together hap- 
pily, but ever fearful. Day by day 
they played upon the Stradivarius 
and when the boor-bell rang there 
was a moment’s panic in the shop, 
and men who came were roundly 
cursed by Bibbs and never came 
again 53 53 


17 




T was morning in the little 
shop. Bibbs came slowly 
out of his silent chamber, 
theStradivarius under his 
arm. He laid the violin upon its 
shelf and lifted the window-shades. 
The sun lit up his pale and haggard 
face. Suddenly the bell above the 
door clanged furiously and a man 
stepped in. 

“ Hello, Bibbs! Give me the Strad- 
ivarius,” said he. 


19 



“ I ’m glad you did n’t come before,” 
Bibbs answered, keeping back his 
tears, “ He is dead — the man who 
loved the Stradivarius — you may 
take it and welcome.” 

And its owner took it, and as he 
went away he laughed and muttered, 
saying, “ Bibbs is crazy.” 


20 


SO HERE ENDETH “ THE STORY OF A PASSION ” 
AS WRITTEN BY IRVING BACHELLER AND DONE 
INTO A BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR 
SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, NEW YORK. 




























